Jeffery Deaver - XO

More arpeggios-chords broken into individual notes-rang out. Kayleigh thought automatically: diminished, minor sixth, major. The guitar did everything Bishop wanted it to do. He could get music out of a tree branch.

She reflected: Bishop Towne had missed concerts because he was unconscious or in jail. But he’d never chosen to cancel one.

He racked the guitar and said to Sheri, “Got that meeting.”

The woman, who seemed to have a different perfume for every day of the week, rose instantly and started to reach for Bishop’s arm, then thought better; she tried to be discreet in his daughter’s presence. She did work at it, Kayleigh reflected.

I don’t hate you.

I just don’t like you.

Kayleigh wafted a smile her way.

“You still got that present I got you a coupla years ago?” Bishop asked his daughter.

“I have all your presents, Daddy.”

She saw them to the door, amused that Darthur Morgan seemed to regard them with some suspicion. The couple piled into a dusty SUV and left, petite Sheri behind the wheel of the massive vehicle. Bishop gave up driving eight years ago.

She thought about making more calls about Bobby but couldn’t bring herself to. She strode to the kitchen, pulling on work gloves, and stepped outside into her garden. She loved it here, growing flowers and herbs and vegetables too-what else, in this part of California? She lived in the most productive agricultural county in America.

The appeal of gardening had nothing to do with the miracle of life, the environment, being one with the earth. Kayleigh Towne just liked to get her hands dirty and concentrate on something other than the Industry.

And here she could dream about her life in the future, puttering around in gardens like this with her children. Making sauces and baked goods and casseroles from things she herself had grown.

I remember autumn, pies in the oven,

Sitting on the porch, a little teenage lovin’,

Riding the pony and walking the dogs,

Helping daddy outside, splitting logs.

Life was simple and life was fine,

In that big old house, near the silver mine.

I’m canceling the fucking concert, she thought.

She stuffed her hair up under a silly canvas sun hat and examined her crops. The air was hot but comforting; insects buzzed around her face and even their persistent presence was reassuring, as if reminding that there was more to life than musical performances.

More than the Industry.

But suddenly she froze: a flash of light.

No, not Edwin. There was no brilliant red color from his car.

What was it? The light was coming from the south, to the left as you faced the garden, about one hundred yards away. Not from Edwin’s hunter’s blind at the arboretum or main road in front. It was from a small access road, running perpendicular to the highway. A developer had bought the adjacent land a year ago but gone bankrupt before the residential construction had started. Was this a survey team? Last year, she’d been glad the deal fell through; she’d wanted her privacy. Now, perversely, she was happy there might be crews around-and eventually neighbors-to discourage Edwin and others like him.

But what exactly was the light?

On off, on off. Flashing.

She decided to find out.

Kayleigh made her way through the brush toward the stuttering illumination.

Bright, dark.

Light, shadow.

KATHRYN DANCE WAS in south Fresno, trying to find a restaurant that Crystal Stanning had recommended.

Her thoughts, though, were on how to handle the explosion when Charles Overby or, more likely, the CBI director in Sacramento told Sheriff Anita Gonzalez that Dance was going to be running the Bobby Prescott homicide.

She actually jumped when her phone buzzed.

Ah, Charles, hope I didn’t disrupt one of your leisurely lunches…

But the number on caller ID was a local one.

“Hello?”

“Kathryn?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Pike Madigan.”

She said nothing.

“Talk for a minute?”

She thought she heard scraping of a spoon. A smack of lips. Was he eating lunch, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear? More ice cream? “Go ahead.”

“What’re you up to?”

She said, “Going for chicken mole at Julio’s.”

“Good choice. Only don’t do the tamales. Lard city.”

A pause on his part now. “I got a call from the head of our Crime Scene Unit, Charlie Shean. Spelled S-H-E-A-N. Not like the actor. Takes some grief for that. Good man.”

She recalled the efficient team at the convention center and at the trailer, on a par with a big-city CSU.

“All the forensics were negative. None of the dust or other trace on the pictures and memorabilia in Edwin’s rental matched what was in Bobby’s trailer. And one of our people ran Edwin’s credit card data? He bought everything we found in his house on eBay. And we got his prints when we booked him. None of the ones at Bobby’s or the convention center match. No footprints, no nothin’. Tire treads for his car, zip. Was a washout.”

“You let him go.”

“Yeah, an hour ago. And released everything we took.”

This was, Dance supposed, the best someone like Madigan could do for a contrition.

But she was wrong.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

And the apology wasn’t over yet.

“You were right, I was wrong. I got outgunned by that fellow. It was like the only reason he came in was to find out information about the investigation.”

“If he’s the perp, then, yes, I think that’s a possibility.”

“This guy’s pretty different from what I’ve been used to. You have a handle on him better than me. If you’re still game would you be willing to help us out? We sure could use you.”

Without hesitation: “I am, yes.”

She’d be sure to call Overby and withdraw her prior request.

“That’s much appreciated.”

Dance thought back to what Stanning had said about Madigan’s concerns. “One thing I wanted to say, Detective. This is your case. I’m a consultant only.”

In other words, the glory and the press conferences are all yours. By the way, I hate them as much as your associate Dennis Harutyun does.

“Well, thank you for that. Now get yourself back here, if you would. Oh, and welcome to the FMCSO, Deputy Dance. Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it, don’tcha think?”

BUT IT WAS him, after all.

The reason she hadn’t seen any red was that the light was glare off the windshield, which shot her way like a theater spot. The crimson of the Buick was below eye level from the house.

Edwin Sharp was fifty feet from her. He’d found a new vantage point. His car was parked on the shoulder and he sat on the hood, legs dangling, as he stared directly toward her house, that sick smile curving his mouth. His rocking, back and forth, had created the intermittent flashing.

She dropped to her knees. He gave no reaction, though, and she knew he hadn’t seen her.

Moving a few dozen feet to the side, Kayleigh looked out again, through the brush. He was wearing earbuds and tapped his hand on his thigh in time to the music. It would be one of her songs. Which one?

Occasionally his head would swivel, scanning the property as if he were admiring a work of art.

Or… wait. There was something about his face. What was that expression?

And then she sensed it was pleasure. Almost ecstasy. And not in a religious sense. His eyelids would droop from time to time and his smile would deepen. He seemed to be breathing hard too, his chest rising.

It was like he was making love.

Was he tapping his thigh to keep time to the music? Or, my God, was he doing something else with his hand? She couldn’t see clearly.